Looks
that he had long forgotten were fixed upon him once more; voices
long since hushed in death sounded in his ears like the music of
village bells. But it was only for an instant. The rain beat
heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart
again.
He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The
street was silent and empty; the few passengers who passed by, at
that late hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was
lost in the violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck
through his frame, and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He
coiled himself up in a projecting doorway, and tried to sleep.
But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind
wandered strangely, but he was awake, and conscious. The well-
known shout of drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at
his lips, the board was covered with choice rich food--they were
before him: he could see them all, he had but to reach out his
hand, and take them--and, though the illusion was reality itself,
he knew that he was sitting alone in the deserted street, watching
the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones; that death was
coming upon him by inches--and that there were none to care for or
help him.
Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror. He had heard
his own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what, or why.
Hark! A groan!--another! His senses were leaving him: half-
formed and incoherent words burst from his lips; and his hands
sought to tear and lacerate his flesh. He was going mad, and he
shrieked for help till his voice failed him.
He raised his head, and looked up the long dismal street. He
recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and
night in those dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with
their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years
before that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary
corner, sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart,
preferring death to that endless, weary, wandering to and fro. In
an instant his resolve was taken, his limbs received new life; he
ran quickly from the spot, and paused not for breath until he
reached the river-side.
He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the
commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water's level. He
crouched into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed.
Never did prisoner's heart throb with the hope of liberty and life
half so eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of
death. The watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved;
and after waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the
distance, he cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy
arch that forms the landing-place from the river.
The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had
ceased, the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and
quiet--so quiet, that the slightest sound on the opposite bank,
even the rippling of the water against the barges that were moored
there, was distinctly audible to his ear. The stream stole
languidly and sluggishly on. Strange and fantastic forms rose to
the surface, and beckoned him to approach; dark gleaming eyes
peered from the water, and seemed to mock his hesitation, while
hollow murmurs from behind, urged him onwards. He retreated a few
paces, took a short run, desperate leap, and plunged into the
river.
